“If Kozlov’s Intel proves correct”—Zoelner glanced at his watch—“we could have our hands on Winterfield in fifteen minutes.”
“Which means we need to call the ground crew at the airport and tell ’em we need the plane gassed and ready to go on the tarmac,” Dan said, already digging in his hip pocket for his phone.
“And we need a way to get to the airport,” Zoelner added, exchanging a look with Dan. After three months together, they no longer needed to say anything to come to an understanding. Dan nodded, just a quick jerk of his chin that said, Roger that.
Zoelner turned to Chelsea.
“Uh-oh.” She frowned. He wondered if she realized it made the freckles across her nose stand out. “I know that face. I’m not going to like what comes next, am I?”
No, she probably wasn’t. But of the four of them, she was the least qualified for what might happen next. Which meant they needed to put her to work on something she was qualified to do. And then there was the added perk that he would able to concentrate a lot better knowing she wasn’t in the shit. Chelsea might be the bane of his existence most days, but he also happened to care for her. “How are you at hot-wiring a car?”
* * *
George remained one with the shadows of the newspaper stand as the foursome exited the building. He watched them head quietly toward the square, and Spider’s orders rang viciously clear inside his head. No witnesses! No loose ends!
He hadn’t been able to hear everything discussed in the alley—when the steam from the coffee shop’s basement boiler hissed into the space, it had drowned out their voices—but he’d heard enough to know the Russian now fell into both of those categories, a witness and a loose end. George had also caught the bit about Winterfield’s expected arrival in the plaza at ten o’clock, which meant he had time to dispatch the Russian and get back to the square to see if, indeed, Winterfield showed.
If he did, George would kill the bastard and the hodgepodge quartet that had apparently been tasked with bringing him in. If Winterfield didn’t show, well…then George would simply continue to watch and wait and hunt the hunters until they finally led him to the prey.
He took a moment to congratulate himself for making the call to follow Daniel Currington from Lima to Cusco. Then he stepped from the gloom, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and keeping his head down so the brim of his ivy cap obscured his face. There was no real concern about street cameras in Cusco—probably one of the main reasons Winterfield had chosen the city as a rendezvous point—but old habits were hard for George to break.
Waiting until he could no longer hear the foursome’s footsteps, he slowly crossed the street, sliding easily through the shadows cast by the surrounding structures. Peering through the window of the building the others had exited, he patiently let his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. One more little lesson he’d learned since coming to work for Spider: It never pays to rush.
One second became two. Two soon became ten. With each of his quiet breaths fogging against the windowpane, George fancied he could hear the cold night whispering to him of secrets locked in the dark, of ancient civilizations reaching an invisible hand forward through space and time to keep a bony finger on the pulse of the present.
The Incans had been a brutal culture by modern standards. Sacrificing their own children to the gods in times of famine and illness. But they had also created great civilizations and beautiful art that transcended the passing of centuries. That dichotomy intrigued George. Perhaps because he saw a bit of it in himself. There was the half of him made up of love and life. The half he showed his daughter. And then there was the half of him made up of darkness and death. The half that did Spider’s bidding no matter the consequences.
George’s whimsical musing came to an abrupt halt when he saw what he was looking for. Over in the far corner a bulky shadow moved. The Russian. Trussed and helpless. An easy target.
Sliding silently toward the building’s entrance, George tried the knob and smiled when it turned. Slipping inside, he closed the heavy wood panel and leaned against the door, feeling the weight of certainty settle atop his shoulders. In approximately ten seconds, the Russian would be dead by his hand.